Like Smoke, Girl

I remember the taste, hot my mouth, then you stick to my lungs.

I exhale, and you're gone.

This particular girl prefered the taste of kisses after smoking, like it was a flavour. The night I learnt that was the same night I learn that dying a girls hair is wayyy to stressful because no one will every do it just right. It was that night that I retired from the hair styling community. The nation mourned.

Later on the bed, I'll think about a lot of things. Some things will be for blogger, some for my stories. I don't know how I decide what goes on here, but usually it comes from tangents or analogies made in passing.

A thin mist kind of like smoke is rolling around my road. I can see because I'm blogging on the windowsill. It's all reminding me of smoke, which is memory, seeping for a glow or fading spark and sinking down into my lungs where it settles and makes me feel sick. I'm not a smoker, I can't handle the memories very well.

I should make a nicotine patch for the past. You can patch right over it and be an ignorant motherfucker!

I remeber how my old blog used to be funny. I best try harder because I miss all that.